


You Are Worth It

by twistedthicket1



Series: Hum like a Honey Bee [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Homophobia, M/M, Parentlock, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on <a href="http://twistedthicket1.tumblr.com/post/74968317219/parent-lock-gifset-will-and-hamish-got-involved"> This prompt/post</a></p><p>Will and Hamish Watson-Holmes get into a fight at school. John demands an explanation. However, things may not be as they seem at first glance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Worth It

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is based on [ This prompt/post](http://twistedthicket1.tumblr.com/post/74968317219/parent-lock-gifset-will-and-hamish-got-involved)
> 
> Hope you enjoy :D slightly angsty this one, but not too bad. I do not own this gif set or sherlock for that matter!

 

 

 

Will and Hamish Holmes-Watson were only a year apart from each other, and as brothers they were sometimes mistaken for twins. Will when his hair wasn't cut had to confess he understood the mistake, his wild curls almost identical to his brother's. But then again, they came from a certain detective, and even as a little boy, he couldn't find fault in them as he stared in the mirror's reflection. Even if people thought him older, expected him to be more mature. It wasn't much of a problem, because he could  _act_ older if need be. Similarly, it wasn't uncommon for Hamish to find himself treated much like a younger student. Side by side, they became known across their school as 'the token geniuses', but were more than their father's legacy.

 

After all, they had John to raise them emotionally.

 

From a young age, both Will and Hamish alike learned that hitting was wrong. However they learned perhaps not in the most conventional of ways, as their dad sat them down at the kitchen table and treated the younger Holmes-Watson's face with ice after Hamish had walloped him over some petty fight. Great big tears had streaked down Will's face even as his dad's kind fingers traced over the bruise, the four-year old sporting a smart black eye that looked far worse than it most likely was. Will could recall how it had throbbed, like a pulsing heartbeat within his chest, and in that instance he could remember the way everything had seemed unfair, how Hamish wasn't being yelled at, and how he somehow felt at fault even though it clearly was no mistake on his part.

 

After all, it wasn't his fault his brother wouldn't  _share_ his toy cars.

 

John had given the little boy an ice pack, tutting softly at the bruise even while refusing to raise his voice as he turned to address the elder of the two boys with a stern look. Hamish at the time had refused to look guilty, his gaze blazing as he crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. He looked very much like his father in that moment, and the army doctor had to suppress a small smile of amusement even as he asked him

 

“'Mish, why did you hit your brother?”

 

The child pouted, stung by the definitely disappointed tone his dad used. Some of his confidence deflated a bit as he saw just how hard Will was crying, and the little boy looked at his bright red trainers and shrugged defensively.

“He started it.” He mumbled sulkily, glaring at his laces “He took m' truck.”

 

Round, chubby cheeks pinkened slightly as Will shrieked his denial, tears still streaming down his face as he shouted “Did  _not!_ It was my turn with them! He had them all day!!”

 

His shout of protest rang in the kitchen loudly, apparently enough to rouse Sherlock from his afternoon slumber. A second later the detective stumbled into the kitchen, looking rather confused and -strangely enough for him- sleepy. However the disoriented expression on his face cleared quickly when he saw Will clutching the ice-pack to his face, and Hamish shrunk lower into his seat as his father's piercing eyes landed on his frame. Suddenly feeling not quite so sure of himself, the elder of the two brothers looked almost imploringly to Will, silently begging him to stop crying so he wouldn't look as bad. Contrarily, Will began to cry harder.

 

Sherlock for his part, didn't seem to be particularly swayed either way. Rather, he seemed equally irritated at them both, and told them as much (although in much gentler tones that he might have used had they'd been someone else's children). Eventually, Will stopped crying.

Especially when the detective rather lazily produced a new truck from the top shelf of his experiment cupboard, apologising in his own way about not easing the problem sooner even though he had known it would arise eventually (John would later argue with him on the fact that neither of the boys had exactly “learned” not to hit each other this way, but the detective didn't agree, perhaps because he was actually tired and lazy and more than a little bit aroused as John had him up against the kitchen counter and the boys were off at school).

 

However, what John didn't realise was that both Will and Hamish did in fact, learn a lesson.

 

 

They learned that no matter what Sherlock and Mycroft might imply, the Holmes family cared about solving the problem in the most straightforward way.

 

Later, they'd learn another lesson, only from the Watson side.

Sometimes, the most straightforward way wasn't the easiest. Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, it was violent.

 

And sometimes, there were consequences for its deployment.

 

Will and Hamish learned it a week after Hamish Watson-Holmes realised he had feelings for his best friend, Alexander (ex-friend later on).

 

He was seventeen.

 

Will in turn learned that sometimes, people could be cruel.

 

****

Hamish hated school. Or at least, he grew to hate it once he passed elementary with flying colours and moved to secondary. It was then that kids grew up enough that they came to know who exactly his parents were, and their reactions were different and constant and  _annoying._

 

He'd always been more like his father in that sense, unwilling or unable to deal with large amounts of people. Whereas his brother and his dad seemed to attract them like magnets. They could pull off sweet smiles and help the elderly cross the street without getting beaten up or glared at, but Hamish Watson-Holmes knew that if he would even so much as try, he'd be held responsible somehow.

 

The thing was, Hamish was also prone to terrible luck. Though he didn't believe in such superstitions, he did believe that someone somewhere had decided that he didn't have enough misery imbued in his regular day-to-day life. He was skinny, rail-thin, and clumsy to boot, missing out on his father's natural and leonine grace. Hamish didn't talk much, instead preferring the company of books and music, and he had a rather feminine pout that made him appear almost doll-like. He wasn't strong like the jocks, who ruled the school with an iron fist (Will had become a part of their group, joining the rugby team his first year and gaining a gaggle of giggling girls as a cult-ish following as a result) nor was he particularly artistic. He was instead an almost-academic, except for the fact that he couldn't be arsed about his grades. Smart, but not willing to work.

 

All he really wanted was one thing: To Learn.

 

Except school seemed to discourage that by nature, and so he kept his head down, and didn't make a habit of making friends.

And above all, he begged his father not to let their dad know he felt like an outcast.

 

It would do no good for John to feel bad, not when it wasn't through any fault of the other students. Hamish knew he was different, knew that was why his own brother had eventually begun to remove himself from his company. He knew hardly anyone understood his fascination with music and its patterns, mathematical rhythms that only he seemed to be able to follow, like a canvas-painted path.

 

Hamish kept quiet, mute in his struggles as he'd inhereted Watson stubbornness in spades. It would do no good to complain. It was irrational to complain over stupid things. Like the argument over the toy truck, the simplest answer was to let things pass. In the end he'd graduate, and eventually move on. The jocks would become beer-bellied adults who'd never get their lives totally in check, and his brother would become something credible.

 

Perhaps even a detective.

 

Yes, Hamish knew he could do this, if he just lasted a bit longer. Worked a little more. Willed himself into muteness.

He just didn't know that in this particular case, his dad wouldn't have wanted him to keep his mouth shut and push through.

Especially when in the middle of the cafeteria, Alexander Daley (whom Hamish had kissed nearly a month before on a whim and misplaced affection) decided to right his sense of masculinity by brutally punching Hamish dead-centre stomach.

 

The elder of the brothers saw stars before everything went to hell.

 

****

Will wasn't one to get into fights. He detested meaningless battles. Smart but not impulsive, he tended to er on the side of caution. A bit like his uncle Mycroft and more so like his dad, he preferred charm over brute force, a trick his elder brother had never quite been able to master.

 

Will never told dad about the school fights. How he'd help Hamish limp home sometimes, only to have their father's cold and furious analysis greet them at the threshold of the flat. It was a sort of open secret, a pattern in which the little family found themselves falling into. Hamish begged their father even as the man rubbed ointment and placed bandages on his skin not to tell dad. Will would cave immediately, and Sherlock would pretend to cave even while secretly he held a boiling anger that was slowly threatening to bubble over.

 

A game of tight-rope walking, as John usually didn't come home from his work until later in the evening.

Hamish counted on that work schedule most days.

 

Still, Will did care about his brother, even if he didn't understand why he always insisted on playing lone wolf. He missed when they were closer, if only because Will often found that though he had many friends, he only had one that truly understood him.

And that one, as he so found today, was having his head beaten in in the middle of the school cafeteria.

 

The youngest of the Holmes-Watson family was just walking in with his group of rugby buddies when he saw the ring of people, and his hear sank down into his chest only to spring to his throat. Because he heard screaming, and he  _knew_ that voice. He  _knew_ what it sounded like when it was terrified. And Will blinked, then surged forward, shoving people aside. They turned as if annoyed at him, then shied away. Will's bright blue eyes were burning. He wasn't sure if it was from anger, or if it was because suddenly, he didn't know where to look.

 

****

Blood was hot copper in his teeth, coated along his tongue and lips. Hamish spat it up along with bile, staggering even as two pairs of hands hauled him to his feet, holding him in place for the next punch. Alexander stood with his fists raised, the knuckles already bruised as he shouted at him. Through the ringing in his ears, Hamish could just make out the words.

 

“Say that again you little freak! Say that fucking again and you won't feel your arms I'll break them so bad.”

 

The elder of the brothers seemed unconcerned by the threat. His eyes were unreadable as carefully he spat at Alex's shoes, making sure to stain those white laces of his trainers red-pink. The sight filled him with a feeling of adrenaline burning through his blood.

 

“I merely stated the obvious. Calling someone a 'faggot' when only a month ago your tongue was down their throat to me seems just a little hypocritical-”

 

The crunch of bone could be heard as Hamish's cheek stung, blood pounding in his head as his neck whipped back with the force of the blow. Alex's hands pulled his skinny frame up by the collar of his shirt, his growl low and threatening through his teeth like a rabid dog's.

 

“You better shut the fuck up right now, fag. I've had about enough of your stupid lies.”

 

“Hafta.... cut out my tongue firs'...” The skinnier boy slurred, grin tinged red as blood slid down his chin. “Wouldn't... wan'.... me t' tell anyone your secrets...”

 

Alex snarled, throwing Hamish painfully against the linoleum. The teen groaned, stars exploding behind his eyelids even as the teen pressed a foot to his ribs. The pain was immediate, hot, and agonising.

Hamish  _howled._

 

“Your fathers are fucking faggots! Therefore you  _and_ your brother are little freaks! Queers as well, am I right?!” Anger surged through Hamish's blood at the mention of his family, something hot and cold sizzling through him at once. He barely noticed that he was on his feet again, tackling Alex in true sport fashion to the floor, attempting to claw his face off.

 

Insult him all they'd like.

Beat him.

Tell him  _he_ was the fuck up.

_But insult the people he cared about._

 

Hamish could feel blood underneath his fingernails before two of Alex's friend's tore him back and restrained him. The teen kicked all the while, hair askew, face sporting a swollen eye and a cut lip and cheek. When Alex rose unsteadily to his toes, he had a matching purple smudge over one eyelid.

 

His expression held in it murder.

Hamish's eyes closed when he heard the words “I'm going to kill you.”

 

They sounded too much like a promise to not be taken seriously.

 

Especially when he found himself restrained, and could do nothing as he was struck.

Again.

Again.

And  _again._

 

****

Will heard the words.

“ _Your fathers are fucking faggots! Therefore you and your brother are little freaks! Queers as well, am I right?!”_

 

He saw Hamish go down.

 

Then, he saw really nothing at all.

 

The next thing he was aware of, was the purplish of bruising along his knuckles. Of how people were staring at him, half out of respect, and half fear. Of how his heart was pounding, deep and wet inside of his lungs. And faintly, him uttering the words

 

“Touch my brother or insult my parents again and I'll blind you.”

 

****

John was the one to get the phonecall. He dropped the paperwork he was doing in the comfort of the flat immediately, cursing eloquently into the phone even as he texted his husband.

 

_**Go to the school and get Will, there's been a fight. Hamish has been taken to Emerg. Meet me at the hospital.- JW** _

 

Within a second, Sherlock replied.

 

_Already on my way.-SH_

 

 

****

Will's dad could make the walls shake with his voice, if he so chose. He didn't do it very often, but when he did, it was generally a good sign that not even the boy's father could hope to calm the man down. Will barely greeted the man before he was being tugged along the hospital halls, taken to an empty one so that John could unleash the full brunt of his anger upon the boy.

 

“I've  _never_  been so  _utterly_  disappointed in  _both_  of you! You broke a boy's  _nose_  today, Will!  _And_  his arm! Three people had to pry you off him! And Hamish was no better!”

 

Will said nothing, staring at the ground even as his fingers ghosted over the bandages lacing his fingers. The dressing was too loose, something his dad noticed immediately upon the boy's fiddling, and John's jaw tightened as he exhaled sharply and demanded he see. Wordlessly, his youngest son complied, still refusing to look up from the ground. Sherlock stood in the corner of the hall, hands in his pockets and eyes narrowed in quiet consideration. Though John's voice still held in it wrath, it was much softer as he assessed the boy's injuries, talented fingers stroking the planes of Will's hand even as he demanded an explanation.

 

“The  _both_ of you had better have a good excuse.”

 

And horrifyingly, Will felt hot tears prick the corner of his eyes.

John felt himself pale when he saw the silent tears streaming down his son's cheeks, and it was then that Sherlock appeared, holding them together with a quiet explanation.

 

“I believe I know why.”

 

And while Will cried, Sherlock explained. When he was done, John was holding his youngest to his chest as if he was once again a small child, and Will found his confusion he didn't mind. His fingers curled in the sleeves of his dad's woollen jumper, and he was reminded of when he was little. When the same jumper had seemed like a shield, designed to ward off all cruelties and fear. The feeling of safety only increased when tentatively, Sherlock's arms came to embrace both of them, and the detective's voice murmured against the shell of his husband's ear.

 

“Still angry, John?”

 

Wordlessly, John cleared his throat and shook his head. His voice held in it a note of steel.

“No longer at you. Never at you two.”

 

And separating, Sherlock watched as his husband took a deep breath and rubbed at his face with the palms of his hands. When he blinked back into focus, his voice was sad.

“Let's go show Hamish how very wrong he is in his opinion of how much we care for him, shall we?”

 

And tentatively, Will smiled.

Straightforward answer. Not easy, but so very worth it. 

Hamish would no doubt fight them.

But his brother was worth the fighting. His brother was  _worth_ defending. 

It was strangely relieving that even during their separation, to Will that fact alone hadn't changed.


End file.
